Of Magic and Majesty
by Moody-Moo
Summary: Broken from the losses she faced during the Battle of Hogwarts, Beth Delanie has unknowingly flung herself head long into a far more perilous venture and the unexpecting arms of a Prince in Exile. Rated T for Beth's potty mouth and violent themes.
1. Prologue

Beth Delanie had been hit, and she was down.

Every alarm bell shrieked frantically inside her, trying and failing in her breathless panic to locate the damage. The adrenalin frazzled her nerves and steadied her trembling hand as she instinctively grappled for her wand, more aware of its presence than actually having seen it. Beth saw it all bathed in sickly green light – the twisted snarl of a nameless Death Eater, his face sallow and gaunt with the weight of his convictions as he stood surrounded by Beth's lifeless allies. That all-encompassing black rage had boiled inside her, and her mouth uttered the curse the same time he did.

Hers hit first. And it hit true.

She had cherished that moment of grim satisfaction as he fell, eyes vacant and face contorted in its final moment of shock – as if he hadn't actually expected her to do it. And if he had, then he certainly hadn't foreseen that he would actually die, as if mortality was somehow beneath him. Beth, on the other hand, had never felt more aware and human and vulnerable than she did now, and through all this Beth was vaguely aware that she was bleeding – courtesy of her now-dead Death Eater (in any other situation, she would have laughed at the irony.)

Heaving herself up and back, she staggered and leaned against a small portion of crumbled staircase that had been left relatively unharmed in the fray. Her surroundings were gulped in at overwhelming speed, and the only thing that drew her alarm was the utter stillness. Amongst the scattered dead, even the few bodies she saw stood vertigo were completely frozen, their gaze as frenzied as no doubt hers was – Death Eaters and Students alike

Beth stood a moment in tense silence, her battered mind stilling – and as it did, she heard what had caused such immobility.

_'You have fought valiantly – but in vain. I do not wish this; every drop of magical blood spilled is a terrible waste. I therefore command my forces to retreat. Dispose of your dead with dignity._

_'Harry Potter – I now speak directly to you. On this night, you have allowed your friends to die for you, rather than face me yourself…there is no greater dishonour. Join me, in the forbidden forest, and confront your fate. If you do not do this – I shall kill every last man, woman and child, who tries to conceal you from me.'_

Beth didn't realise how badly she was shuddering until that dreadful hiss released her, and her thoughts flew to the faces she knew and loved – Neville, who she had not seen since they were separated at the bridge. Neville who she'd promised to protect, on their friendship of almost 10 years. Ginny, her sister in all but blood – too young to be here, too young to kill or be killed; much like many of the other young faces she recognised amongst the bodies that littered the stairwell, as if a great sleeping enchantment had settled upon the school during the brief transition period between lessons. Beth forced hers eyes to her scuffed shoes, and kept them there.

Fred. Where was her Fred? With George, unquestionably – but _where?_ Anxiety welled in her throat, constricting her gasping breaths as she staggered in the direction of the Great Hall, fingers desperately trying to hold her side together, where the fabric of her school jumper grew sticky and warm. The doors were open in their usual welcome, though the scene beyond was nothing of the familiar long tables, filled to the brims with enough dishes to make you swear you'd never eat again. Immediately, someone clad in a white nurse's apron pressed a small bottle into her hand, and Beth vaguely heard the woman tell her to use it sparingly before scurrying back to tend to whichever patient she'd momentarily left. Beth clung to the bottle as if it were her lifeline, before daring to focus her gaze upon the once Great Hall. There were faces Beth recognised, and some she didn't, all wearing that expression – the one sapped of all hope and fight. Beth's eyes swept over the quiet, not daring to linger too long on any of the peaceful faces.

And that's when she spotted the prominent huddle of flaming red hair, Arthur and Molly – the only thing holding the other up, and Ginny stood curled into Bill's side, hair fallen across her face to curtain off her tears. She saw George, though she barely recognised him. Beth didn't even know that his face could hold such a picture of grief – there was no trace of the usual teasing in the crease of his brow. Why –

**_No._**

She saw him then. Laid out amongst the others – the dead.

**_No._**

It couldn't happen. It wasn't possible the Fred could die, and leave her here all alone. This was all some sick illusion, created by that fucking Death Eater. Molly spotted her and Beth watched almost curiously as the aged woman let out a dry sob, beckoning Beth to come to her, and take comfort. Why did she need comfort? Fred wasn't gone. He had a great career starting up, family and friends and a future with her, together. They'd already decided that she would move in with them when all this was over.

**_No._**

Beth was suddenly surrounded by death. It suddenly came up to press against her lungs and stole her air. She needed to get out of here – to go to find her Fred. Her eyes near clawed out of her skull in their frantic search for the door she'd just come through, that all but seemed to have vanished. Instead, she was met with endless faces – Professor Lupin, Tonks, Lavender Brown, one of the Pavarti twins, little Colin Creevey.

Thoughtless, Beth spun on her heel, the last whispers of her rational mind providing a destination –

_**'Not here.'**_

Her gut twisted in that familiar distortion, before she was once again weightless and the black encased her with a motherly embrace.

Then Beth Delanie was falling. Down, under and far, far away.


	2. The Other Side

_ I heard a whisper on my shoulder,_

_Pretending life is worth the fight._

_Oh, can you hear the sound of thunder?_

_When fear strangles a soldier's pride._

Beth had been out for a long time.

At least, it felt like a long time – floating in the bottomless dark, uncertain of whether her eyes were open or shut. If she still had a body, she was unaware of it. The bizarre sensation of being formless, as if one false move would cause her to dissipate like smoke in the wind – was this death?

If so, Beth decided – somewhere in the part of her mind that was still active enough to think such thoughts – that it was going to be awfully tedious; though not completely undeserved on her part. After all she'd seen and done, maybe it was fitting she should be suspended forever in this state of undoing.

But as time passed – its measure completely obscure to her smoky existence – she began to feel again. At first, it was just her fingertips, with no sensation as to what connected her to said digits – but they were there all the same. Slowly but surely Beth gained a sense of rebuilding herself, there in that endless abyss. The feeling rapidly increased to the point where whatever held her insubstantial, seemed to have thrown the now whole Beth out of the proverbial pram and she was falling once again, in sheer agony.

For the first time in what felt to be a very long time indeed, Beth Delanie was alive.

And the second she opened her eyes, and the night's events assaulted her memory, she wholeheartedly wished she wasn't.

It didn't help that the moment Beth found purchase beneath her feet, her balance failed her – causing her to topple, head slamming hard against something pretty bloody solid and she was returned quite abruptly to the blank of unconsciousness.

Beth's awakening was swift this time. Her mind was hazed and swimming, battered beyond cognitive function. The dim light of day made her eyes ache, and – upon opening them – were assaulted with heavy droplets of rain, the pang of concussion slicing across her brow. All warmth was leeched from her, par the right side of her torso, which grew unbearably hot and sticky with blood.

Jaw clenched through the pain, Beth turned her head painfully slowly to look for her wand, puffing her wispy curls out her peripheral vision to spy both her wand and the glint of the dittany vial - hopefully in one piece –frustratingly just out of reach, sheltered beneath the underbrush that lay all about her.

An outrageous amount of swearing, hissing and whimpering later, the witch decided that trying to move to retrieve the wand was out of the question, making her eyes bleary as her side protesting excruciatingly every time, as if pressed by a white hot poker.

_How long have I been asleep? What-_

Death, green light, blood, tears, Fred, Fred, _Fred_ –

Beth lay there, the chill of the rain gripping her bones, and yet numb in a completely different sense. She lay there, bleeding, and suddenly dawned the realisation that it wouldn't be so very awful if she were to simply let go. She was just so _tired_, was it really so much to want to lie down, and sleep forever?

After all, what was left for her? Was the fight over? If Beth was waking up into a world where You Know Who reigned supreme, was it worth living? She was Muggleborn – they would only hunt her down, she thought through the fog of blood loss and detachment;

_It's better just to lie here, slip away quietly, and go to be with Fred – there's no one left with enough grief to spare on me, anyway._

Time immeasurable passed, and the dark crept and coiled at the edge of her sight, when Beth heard a great din; The splat of feet against boggy grassland, the nickers and snorts of horses, and lots of gruff voices shouting, that made the throb in her head all the worse. Nothing, however, came into her line of vision, and so she remained motionless (having no strength left to do otherwise) praying to anyone with mercy that these noisy strangers would somehow pass her by.

Fate, however, was a bitch; and Luck had abandoned Beth long ago, so of course, the footsteps neared and the voices became more coherent – despite the ringing in her ears. Beth's eyesight was failing, and so she could only barely make out that a blob of grey hair approached her, and leaned over, examining. His face was lost to her, but Beth could just about process that he was certainly not in Death Eater robes. _He may still be a supporter_, she thought dubiously, trying to move her facial muscles into something slightly more intimidating and less gormless.

'Lass, can you hear me?' asked a heavy Scottish accent, presumably from aforementioned grey blob. Her lip twitched, and she tried to wiggle feebly. 'Stay away,' she slurred, feeling pathetic. Her resolve was there, but to face more Death Eaters now – No. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of crossing off another Muggleborn name on their blacklist. The voice continued, blatantly ignoring her, though not apparently unkindly:

'You've lost a lot of blood lass, you're wound will need tending to.'

_What?_ She thought, confounded in her state of delirium – a Death Eater, offering to _help_ her?

'I don't…want…your…_help_,' she spat as viciously as she was capable. 'Piss off,'

Grey blob clearly did not approve of her language choice, and clucked at her. 'I can't very well leave you for the crows – here lads, help me with her, we need to get her warm. Thorin, she's too weak to be moved.' He called, off to the side and out of Beth's measly line of vision, where presumably more grey blobs loomed. A noncommittal noise of acceptance sounded, followed by barked orders:

'Very well, we camp here for the night. Fili, Kili, help Oin and get a fire going.'

All this was heard as if from underwater, yet an outright panic swelled in Beth's chest, her breaths tight and shallow. she feebly cringed away, into the dirt as if hoping it would swallow her whole and have done with it as a light and dark haired blob appeared above her.

To her utter dismay, Beth began to cry.

'Please…don't. I don't – _no_,' she wailed meekly, as gentle hands encompassed her and moved her as a mother would a new born child. A glowing warmth grew larger to her left, and Grey Blob was rolling up the fabric of her clotted shirt and jumper, peeling the scabs and exposing the wound to sharp air that made Beth shudder, retching with the force of her sobs and the sting of her curse wound. She whimpered and shook like a broken thing, and Beth still continued to beg.

'Stop – I don't – don't want to. Don't want to,'

Grey blob was having none of it, and Beth only managed to hear half of his brusque refusals before dissolving into a blubbing wreck once again. How brutally unfair of them, she thought, that she had been so decided upon dying, and yet here she was, audacious enough that tentative touch and caring words still lit a small hope that she might survive. _Stupid instinct_, Beth cursed spitefully, before proceeding to sob her way into hysteria and exhaustion – the last thing Beth knew were warm arms supporting her back and a golden halo of hair that brushed her own mop as Grey blob set to work with her wound.

Fili had yet to see anything so wretched in his life of 82 years. And he was hardly a sheltered child. Daring a glance down at the bleeding, sobbing, shuddering mess resting against his chest as he gingerly restrained her movement, all the young prince could see was a mass of mousy, flyaway curls, clumped with dust and grit. Beyond that he only noticed how pale she was – with cold or blood loss, he wasn't sure – and how it contrasted so grotesquely against the clotting wound, which was within itself entirely too odd.

It was a nasty thing – deep and scorched, the flesh around the gaping hole in her side almost looked charred, yet her bizarre shirt was untorn, marking no entry hole from a weapon or singe marks of a naked flame. Fili couldn't bear to look at it too long, and instead focussed his efforts on blotting out the silence, which was more disturbing somehow than the lass' defiant protests. She was a young thing, even by mannish standards from what he could tell – _What could've possibly been so dreadful that she'd give up altogether?_ The young dwarf wondered dolefully.

Oin worked tirelessly to clean and stitch the wound, and by the time he was done, the night had drawn in and returned the bitter winds from the last few days with biting vengeance. A few of the others begrudgingly managed to muster a spare blanket or two for the lass, who was lain resting as close to the fire as they dared put her, with Fili, Kili and Master Baggins keeping vigilant watch over the rise and fall of the blankets.

Gandalf, keeping to himself with the broad rim of his hat pulled low over the bridge of his nose, puffed on his pipe in thoughtful solitude at the furthermost edge of the camp. Something about this child felt so impressionably _wrong_. He sensed a magic of sorts in her, yet it was as foreign as it was impossible – but he felt it there, all the same. His mind toiled through possibilities, and came up irksomely short of any rational reasoning. She was by no means defenceless, if her state of being was anything to go by; and this meant she would not be a hindrance to them, if the old wizard were to take her to seek answers at Imladris. It also meant, however, that was potentially a threat to the Company and their quest. As the dwarves and their prized burglar settled down under the rolling clouds of a starless night, Gandalf's thoughts continued to refuse him rest, plaguing him into the early hours, when the decision was thrust upon him, quite abruptly, as the aforementioned problem began to stir from her makeshift sickbed.

Beth was getting really rather fed up of constantly waking up into an unknown situation. Her entire body was one big bruise, and her breathing was being smothered by the mass of furs that were tucked all the way up under chin to her toes. Slowly but surely, her senses acclimatised and her ears were assaulted by the cacophonic snoring that hummed all about her, making it quite impossible to consider going back to sleep anyway.

She was surrounded on all sides.

Forcefully stamping down a full-blown anxiety attack, she grit her teeth and slowly wriggled her way out of the blanket cave, which collapsed with an audible _thump_ at the absence of her body, testing the wound with a wary hand.

_'Fuck,'_ she hissed, louder than anticipated, and something moved. She felt it rather than saw it, but something just beyond her vision moved, and she instantly was on high alert. Clutching at her side as if to hold herself together, she stumbled up onto trembling legs and slowly turned to face the threat, as steady as a colt still growing into its limbs.

The threat turned out to be an old man with a beard that would've rivalled Professor Dumbledore's , with long grey robes that fell loosely about his booted feet and ancient, deep set blue eyes – that had that same look about them as the late Headmaster. If this in itself was ringing any alarm bells, the blatantly obvious symbolic wizard's hat was the last straw. Either all of the slumbering heaps of hair that were dotted around the embers of last night's fire knew about magic and were somehow part of a race she'd never heard of [in which case, Beth _really_ wished she'd paid more attention during History of Magic] or he was a stranger to the ones who'd saved her and thus a danger to all of them.

Not waiting for her rational mind to decide, Beth staggered backwards in the direction of the undergrowth, desperately hoping her wand was still there, not once taking her eyes from the old man as he rose, his palms held up in an offering of peace.

'Now, now my dear, I can assure you I have no intention of harming you, nor do any of my companions,' he rumbled, the beginnings of a warm smile appearing in his age-carved face.

Beth hesitated and she cursed herself for it – _you're just going to take everyone's word on it, now? After everything? Really?!_

'If you're not a threat then let me get my wand,' she challenged, already continuing on her agonising backward expedition, trying her utmost to avoid the snoring lumps and the harsh briar bushes snagging at her tights. Swearing like a sailor, Beth tenderly lowered herself to the ground, already certain she'd ripped the stitching grey blob had done for her last night – had it been last night? Or had she been out for multiple days? What if –

_Focus, Beth._

Her shoulders slumped once Beth's hand curled around the handle of her 8 inch maple wand; to feel its magic thrum beneath her fingers was the biggest security blanket she could have asked for. She could do this, as long as she had her wand. By a stroke of chance, she found the freezing cold glass of the dittany pressing against her fingertips, and snatched it up gratefully, the old man all but forgotten in her haste. Until he moved to approach her, that is.

The grey wizard sidled a step or two closer, his face curious and eyes bright, but Beth missed the innocent intention, and brandished her wand at him unflinchingly. 'Don't come any closer than that,' she told him flatly, flexing her grip for emphasis. The old man pressed his lips together thoughtfully for a moment, before not so subtly attempting to diffuse the tension.

'My name is Gandalf the Grey; might I know yours, my dear girl?'

Beth paused, weighing her options.

'…Pansy Parkinson.'

'Well then, Miss Pansy, I would highly recommend that you rest there a moment whilst I muster Oin to look at your wound. It appears you have strained it in your attempts to escape from the only possible safety for miles.' He smiled grimly at her, and Beth blinked twice before registering his mocking sarcasm and scowled.

'I wasn't running away, I was fetching this,' she explained huffily, flourishing the dittany in her other hand, her side beginning to pulse. 'And for all I know, the whole lot of you could be Death Eaters, so excuse me for not being too gracious a guest.'

'I'm afraid I am unfamiliar with that term,' he replied mildly, as if confessing to not knowing the time or date. Beth gaped at him, gobsmacked.

'You're a wizard, of _course _you know what bloody Death Eaters are!' she fumed at him, before biting her cheek when she noticed several of the snoozing figures stirred at the volume of her tantrum. Shuffling the fabric of her jumper – now hardened into a solid clump of blood and wool – Beth fumbled around with the dittany vile, pulling the cork with her teeth and slopped it haphazardly over her wound – a particularly hideous puncture courtesy of some unknown curse. _They certainly didn't teach the bastard THAT at Hogwarts,_ she thought bitterly to herself as the pain set in and Beth's body was wracked with convulsions.

Having your skin rapidly regenerate itself was hardly a comfortable process, and Beth's knuckles were white around the handle of her wand as she tried to breathe through it – without the adrenalin of battle, she was only now beginning to realise how much it bloody _hurt_, and she promptly lost all dignity she'd grappled to maintain as she emptied her guts out all over the bushes, her chin, and the hem of her top.

Today was simply not her day.

Not that she'd even intended to _have_ a today. Beth could've almost laughed at her situation now, that she was on guard enough to go as far as to attempt to defend her life against the numpty-wizard who didn't apparently know what a Death Eater was, when the last time she'd been lucid enough to think she'd been adamant about dying.

Blinking away her watery vision, she came almost face to face with Gandalf, who was frowning down his nose at her with those antediluvian, inquisitive eyes and Beth couldn't even force herself to fire a curse at him. She was a mess, and she was exhausted, and she stubbornly decided there was nothing he could do or say to make that worse.

'You and your magic are not of this world, child.'

Except maybe that.

**Updating is miraculous for me, and within a month of the first! This chapter is dedicated to xSiriuslyPadfoot, thanks so much for your comments, I really appreciate it!**** Things will pick up pace a lot int he next, I suck at getting things going, and it's a bit of sticky situation Beth's got herself in.**

**I'd love if you have time to give me any constructive criticisms, thanks!**

**Ellie x**


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